
ROBINSON 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Si^p..?-.... @tq^rig|i % 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2010 with funding from 
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http://www.archive.org/details/songofpalmotherpOOrobi 



C3hL> 



SONG OF THE PALM 



AND OTHER POEMS, 



MOSTLY TROPICAL. 



TO WHICH IS ADDED 

AN ORATION, DELIVERED AT THE UNITED STATES 

CONSULATE, ASPINWALL, ON THE 

FOURTH OF JULY, 

1866. 



h-l 



Tracy Robinson. 
II 




BRENTANOS: 
NEW YORK. WASHINGTON. CHICAGO. PARIS. 



Copyright, 1888. 
By TRACY ROBINSON. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Song of the Palm --_-_. y 
Among the Dredges ----- 14 

In Absence - - - - - - - 16 

Planting of the Palm ----- ly 

A Tropic Sunset - - - - - - 19 

My Prayer -------22 

June Memories from the Tropics - - - 26 

Come Soon ! - - - - - - - 30 

The Majority - - - - - - -33 

My Friend ------- 35 

Equatorial - - - - - - -36 

The Banana Planter ----- 39 



CONTENTS. 

Extremes - - - - - - -50 

The Reverent Mood - - - - - 51 

In the Morning - - - - - - 52 

In the Evening ------ 54 

At Panama - - - - - - -55 

Doubt -------- 57 

Marie -------- 59 

My Boyhood Home ----- 60 

Oration - . . . , , . - 93 



My feet love well to haunt the meads, 
And wander where the thrush is loud ; 
And yet some sad enchantment leads 
Me aye among the busy crowd ; 
And with bent head my life proceeds 
Where the smoke hovers like a cloud. 

From '' Shadow- Soul,'' by John Payne. 



Sumptuous is the South— a Syren singing us ever for- 
ward to a bliss never reached ; but with each mile won, 
she makes the pursuit more passionate, brimming the 
cup that only feeds the thirst with delicious draughts that 
taste divine. 

From ''Nile Notes,'' by George William Curtis, 



Sometimes I pause before an open gate. 

The Gate of Dreams; 
And luonder if, by any happy fate. 

The lucent gleams 
Of all the glad and golden world within. 

My gaze that ineet. 
Are presages that I may some day zvin 

That fair retreat. 



SONG OF THE PALM. 



" Th^ trees are imperfect men, and seem to bemoan their 
imprisonment, rooted in the g^round." — E.aierson. 



Wild is its nature, as it were a token, 

Born of the sunshine, and the stars, and sea ; 

Grand as a passion, felt, but never spoken, 
Lonely and proud and free. 

For when the Maker set its crown of beauty, 
And for its home ordained the torrid ring. 

Assigning unto each its place and duty. 
He made the Palm a King. 

So when in reverie I look and listen. 

Half dream-like floats within my passive mind, 

Why in the sun its branches gleam and glisten. 
And harp-wise beat the wind ; 



SONG OF THE PALM. 

Why, when the sea-waves, heralding their tidings, 
Come roaring on the shore with crests of down. 

In grave acceptance of their sad confidings, 
It bows its stately crown ; 

Why, in the death-like calms of night and morn- 
ing, 

Its quivering spears of green are never still. 
But ever tremble, as, at solemn warning, 

A human heart may thrill ; 

And also why it stands in lonely places. 
By the red desert or the sad sea shore. 

Or haunts the jungle, or the mountain graces 
Where eagles proudly soar ! 

It is a sense of kingly isolation. 

Of royal beauty and enchanting grace, 

Proclaiming from the earliest creation 
The power and pride of race, 



SONG OF THE PALM. 

That has almost imbued it with a spirit, 
And made it sentient, although still a tree, 

With dirn perception that it might inherit 
An immortality. 

The lines of kinship thus so near converging, 
It is not strange, O heart of mine, that I, 

While stars were shining and old ocean surging, 
Should intercept a sigh. 

It fell a-sighing when the faint wind, dying, 
Had kissed the tropic night a fond adieu — 

The starry cross on her warm bosom lying, 
Within the southern view. 

And when the crescent moon, the west descend- 
ing, 
Drew o'er her face the curtain of the sea, 
In the rapt silence, eager senses lending, 
Low came the sigh to me. 

9 



SONG OF THE PALM. 

God of my life ! how can I ever render 

The full sweet meaning sadl}^ thus conveyed ; 

The full sad meaning, heart-breakingly tender, 
That through the cadence strayed ? 

O that the Priestess, who, with magic lyre, 
Sang last the South, ere death gave her to fame. 

Had heard, and fanned her fierce poetic fire 
Into "baptismal flame" ! 

That he who by the far Egyptian river, 
Howadji worshipful from Western shores. 

Caught the grand inspiration that forever 
The sunlight round it pours. 

Again had listened, and again revealing 
The intertropic summer of the soul. 

Had made translation, eloquent with feeling 
Beyond my poor control ! 

lO 



SONG OF THE PALM. 



II. 



When the wild North-wind by the sun enchanted, 
Seeks the fair South, as lover beauty's shrine. 

It bears the moaning of the sorrow-haunted, 
Gloomy, storm-beaten Pine. 

The weaves of ocean catch the miserere, 

Far wafted seaward from the wintry main, 

They roll it on o'er reaches vast and dreary 
With infinite refrain, 

Until on coral shores, where endless Summer 
Waves golden banners round her queenly 
throne. 
The Palm enfolds the weary spirit roamer 
With low responsive moan. 

II 



SONG OF THE PALM. 

The sea-grape hears it, and the lush banana, 
In the sweet indolence of their repose ; 

The frangipanni, like a crowned Sultana, 
The passion-flower, and rose ; 

And the fierce tiger in his darksome lair. 
Deep hid away beneath the bamboo-tree ; 

All the wild habitants of earth and air. 
And of the sleeping sea. 

It throws a spell of silence so enthralling. 
So breathless and intense and mystical. 

Not the deep hush of skies when stars are falling 
Can fill the soul so full. 

A death in life ! A calm so deep and brooding 
It floods the heart with an ecstatic pain ; 

Brimming with joy, yet fearfully foreboding 
The dreadful hurricane. 

12 



SONG OF THE PALM. 

Fail love, fly happiness, yield all things mortal ! 

Fate, with the living, hath my small lot cast 

To dwell beside thee, Palm ! Beyond death's 
portal, 

Guard well my sleep at last. 

For I do love thee with a lover's passion. 

Morn, noon, and night thou art forever grand — 
Type of a glory God alone may fashion 

Within the Summer Land. 

Sigh not, O Palm ! Dread not the final hour. 

For oft I've seen within thy gracious shade. 
Amid rose-garlands fair from Love's own bower. 

Lithe, dusky forms displayed, 

Clad with the magic of their beauty only ; 

And it were strange if Paradise should be 
Despoiled and made forever sad and lonely, 

Bereft of these and thee ! 

Ha^-per' s Magazine, 1873. I"^ 



AMONG THE DREDGES. 



TO H. B. S. 

Down where the baby Andes 

Lie a-dream under tropic skies, 
And the turbulent river Chagres 

Rushes forward torrent-wise 
Through the equatorial jungle, 

On its way to the parent sea, 
1 have seen those marvellous dredges, 

Like huge engines of destiny. 

It is wonderful to watch them. 

As they swing at their work all day, 
Like antediluvian monsters, 

Devouring the earth in their way. 
Nor yet do they pause for the darkness. 

But as well through the hours of night. 
They never tire nor falter 

Till the dawn of the morning light. 
14 



AMONG THE DREDGES. 

They are toiling for civilization I 

And the world will one day know 
How, great is the debt it owes them, 

When the tides of the oceans flow 
Back and forth, from each to the other ! 

And then, as with one acclaim. 
My friend, you will stand acknowledged, 

And will wear the laurel of fame I 



15 



IN ABSENCE. 



Though spices lure me and the rose-tree throws 

Her heart of fragrance to beguile the sense, 
Though warm airs woo me and the beauty grows 
Intense, 

Though sunsets ravish with their blue and gold, 

And amber moons enchant the tropic zone, 
Love grows a-weary and my heart a-cold, 

Alone ! 

Then come, my darling, come again to me, 

Nor linger longer on the far-off shore ; 
Between us there shall roll the cruel sea 
No more. 

I long to clasp 3/ou in a fond embrace, 

And tell you, tell you, with my every breath, 
I ne'er again will miss your loving face 
Till death ! 

Harper's Magazine, 1873. 

16 



PLANTING OF THE PALM. 



The sea was breaking on its reef of coral 

With its unceasing roar, 
While darker than the hue of pine or laurel 

Beyond it lay the shore — 

The tropic shore. And there, one happy hour, 

In the brief sunset calm. 
Just in the shadow of a fragrant bower, 

We planted our first palm, 

My love and I. And as we sat beside it 

We said it might so be, 
The time might come, unless we were denied it. 

When we would have our tree. 

We told it then a loving little story, 

As if it might take heed ; 
Then turned away to read the sunset glory 

That was in part our creed. 

17 



PLANTING OF THE PALM. 

Alas, the years have flown ; each has departed 

More swiftly than the last, 
And now alone all sad and heavy-hearted 

I'm dreaming of the past. 

Its branches wave ; but she, my love so tender, 
For whom all things make moan, 

No longer bides with me. O, could I send her 
Translation of the tone 

In which our palm tree is forever sighing. 

Perhaps it would allay 
The grief of which her heart is almost dying, 

To be so far away. 

Harper^ s Magazine, 1874. 



18 



A TROPIC SUNSET. 



Vanished the vision ! Shadows of darkness 
Compass the heavens, swift as disaster 
Follows the onset of a grand army 
Valiant of heroes. 

Who shall describe it ? There, o'er the ocean, 

Just where the headland creeps from the moun- 
tain, 

Thirsty with summer, down to the water. 

Daylight departed. 

From the black tempest there at the northward. 
Where the horizon blends with the desert 
Of the eternal wild surging billows. 
Flashed the red lightning. 

19 



A TROPIC SUNSET. 

East, where the shadows o'er fair Santa Rita 
Gather and hover, ghostly white vapors, 
Creeping all softly up from the valleys, 
Lay down to slumber. 

All o'er the heavens spread a wide glory, 
Greater than Jacob saw in his vision, 
Grander by far than ever imagined 
Milton or Dante. 

The shore seemed enchanted, the sea turned to 
amber. 

With pontoons of crystal thrown from cloud- 
castles, 

Proudly erected there on the mountains 

Of the true Gold Coast. 

Vessels seemed sailing up from the sunset. 
Laden with treasure ; sailing all fairly. 
While o'er their courses waved without number 
Banners of crimson. 
20 



A TROPIC SUNSET. 

Islands of beauty, seemingly real, 
Filled all the west with a peace so enchanting. 
The heart, being human, longed without measure 
Its joys to inherit ; 

Eagerly longed that the shades of life's evening, 
Folding their wings over all that can perish, 
Might gather the loved on a shore so celestial 
In the Hereafter. 

God knows forever the thoughts of His creatures; 
Knows their true value. Therefore before Him 
It were but vain that a pretence were offered 
For true devotion. 

Will He then listen, will He believe us, 
When we, all thankful, reading His Gospel, 
Lay on His altar all that He gave us ? 
Love is immortal. 



Harper s Magazine. 

21 



MY PRAYER. 



O Love, 
Sing me thy song — 
Blind singer sweet upon my threshold here. 
Stay, and thy carol lovingly prolong. 
Nor ever fear ; 
And while thou singest, in a waking dream 

Of happy fantasies will I explore 
The sunny plenitude of wood and stream, 

Of cloud and mountain and the murmuring 
shore, 

To bring for thee what cheer, 
O Love ! 



22 



MY PRAYER. 



O Life, 
Thy meaning teach. 
Unfold for me thy hidden, fateful lore. 

That howso toiling thy grand heights to reach, 
Not any more 
My weary travail shall be all in vain ; 

That sun or tempest shall alike reveal 
Forever lessening loss and greater gain. 
Keep, keep my heart as true as finest steel 
To reap thy richest store, 
O Life ! 



23 



MY PRAYER. 



O Death, 

In sombre state, 

The torch invert not until latest day ; 

Nor heap the dull red mound. I pray thee wait. 

With kind delay, 

Till the long loving summer-time is gone. 

And happy autumn hoards her sun-wrought 
gold ; 

Till the wild frost-winds, frowning down the 
dawn. 

Chill noon and sunset with their bitter cold, 

And bid no longer stay, 

O Death ! 



24 



MY PRAYER. 



O Faith, 
Lo, here am I ! 
Bear me aloft upon triumphant wings ! 
Although deep laden with the sad alloy 
Of sinful things, 
Close in the folds of thy protecting care, 

Nor doubt nor darkness shall assail me more ; 
But sunlit visions, rapturously fair, 

Shall gild my longings for the glorious shore 
Whence flow thy crystal springs, 
O Faith ! 



JUNE MEMORIES FROM THE 
TROPICS. 



Within the cool dark shade of tropic trees, 

Broad-leaved banana, lime, and stately palm, 
I muse of June in lands beyond the seas. 

Far from this realm of calm. 
The droning of cicadas fills the air. 

And captive kites complain with drowsy tone ; 
The day is golden, and the green earth fair. 
All through the Summer zone. 

A thousand blended sweets diffuse their charm 

From myriads of flowers on every hand, 
And sensuous pleasure seems no sinful harm 

Within this "Lotus-land." 
Strange that, surrounded by a world so bright. 

Thought should play truant and escape control; 
Strange that the fiend unrest should try his might 
To captivate the soul. 
26 



JUNE MEMORIES FROM THE TROPICS. 

But when across the equatorial line 

The sun advances northward day by day, 
Remembrance comes to take this heart of mine 

And carry it away. 
For then I know that on the hills of home, 

Still bare and sad from winter's snowy reign, 
A magic transformation soon will come 
And beauty rule again. 

Then from the glowing sameness of this land, 

Although Lethean in its subtle charm, 
I long to go and once more haply stand 

Upon my father's farm. 
Once more, on some sweet morning of the spring, 

When all around is hushed and very still, 
I long to hear the robin-redbreast sing 
And listen to the mill ; 



27 



JUNE MEMORIES FROM THE TROPICS. 

The rustic saw-mill, just behind the wood, 

Where there was skating in the winter days, 
And where in spring a lovely lily-brood 

And willows met the gaze. 
A little down the stream a meadow spread, 

Until it came close to the school-house door ; 
While near, the lonely grave-yard hid its dead, 
In the sad, glad days of yore. 

Clear as the scenery of a waking dream, 

Half filled with pleasure, half with tearful pain. 
Those days and years of my lost boyhood seem, 

When called to view again. 
My fondest recollection treasures yet 

The revelation of each wondrous day, 
When buttercup and purple violet 
Vied to embellish May. 



28 



JUNE MEMORIES FFOM THE TROPICS. 

Then like the soothing murmur of the sea, 

Or magic measure of some grand old tune, 
Come sweetest floral memories to me 

From green and lovely June. 
And though the miracle of life each day 

In chains of tropic splendor bind me here, 
I sigh, alas ! that I am far away 

From scenes that are so dear. 

Colon, iS8o. 



29 



COME SOON 



Hastens my dear one to her tropic nest ? 
Shares her fond heart the burden of unrest, 
With which mine own is evermore opprest, 

When she is gone ? 
Will her dear feet soon press this Summer shore, 
And will the touches of her hand once more. 
Her smile and voice, console me as of yore. 

In love's fair dawn ? 

I knoiv she comes ! Unless, unless the snows 
Have spread o'er her their mantle of repose ! 
Ah, heart of mine, forecast the bitter woes 

So surely thine 
If this should be ! But no. I will not grant 
A fear so direful should my spirit haunt. 
Hope shall befriend me and shall sweetly chant 

Her lay divine. 
30 



COME SOON I 

So sure it seems that this great happiness 
Will soon be mine — my darling to caress, 
Gaze in her eyes, and to my bosom press 

Her form so fair — 
That I have told the secret to the flowers ; 
And now, in unison, we count the hours, 
Ere with red roses from their fragrant bowers 

I'll deck her hair. 

It is no longer gone than yesterday, 

A graceful bamboo bent its head o'er me. 

Reclining by my glorious blue sea — 

Blue sky above — 
And nodding " yes " to all my questionings, 
Gave the sweet promise that with snowy wings 
Spread to the gales, e'en now the swift ship brings 

My dearest love. 



31 



COME SOON ! 

My heart is full of her ! When I awake, 

The doves are cooing for her dear love's sake ; 

The palms are waving and the foam-crests break 

Along the shore. 
The warm winds whisper lovingly of her, 
When in the dreamy air they are astir ; 
O, she shall be my only comforter 

For evermore ! 



32 



THE MAJORITY. 



How fare they all, they of the pallid faces, 

Beyond our power to beckon their return ? 
How is it with them in the shadow places? 

How shall we learn 
Their solemn secret? How can we discover, 

By any earnest seeking, the true way 
Unto the knowing in what realm they hover, 

In what high day, 
Or in what sombre shadows of the night. 
They are forever hidden from our sight? 



35 



THE MAJORITY. 



We question vainly. Yet it somehow pleases, 

When they have spoken the last sad good-bye, 
It somehow half the pain of parting eases, 

That in the sky, 
In the vast solitudes of stars and spaces, 

There may be consciousness and life and hope. 
And that when we must yield to death's embraces. 

There may be scope 
For the unfolding of the better powers. 
So sadly stifled in this life of ours. 



34 



MV FRIEND. 



It may be a dream that our gruesome fate 

Will ever bestow, 
The faultless comrade, with heart so great 

In weal or woe, 
That faith shall abide and an equal trust 

Bind two in one, 
Till day is night and dust is dust 

And life is done. 

But I will seek and will hope to find. 

Until the end, 
When with mists of death my eyes grow blind. 

This friend, my friend ! 
And when found, lest that hooks of steel should 
part 

And yield control. 
We will fetter each other heart to heart, 

In bonds of soul. 

35 



EQUATORIAL. 



My soul awakes when the jaguar wakes, 

As the sun withdraws his ray; 
Throws off the day and awakes and shakes, 

With a jaguar-hunger for prey ; 

Awakes from the dull routine, and slakes 

Its so fiercely burning thirst, 
In the west, where the crimson sunset lakes 

Bathe the isles of gold immersed. 

In the sunset first its fierce hunger and thirst 

Does my craving soul allay. 
Where mid gleams of glory, burst on burst, 

Night folds away the day; 

36 



EQUATORIAL. 

Then far afloat on the sea remote, 
Where fringes of rain-clouds trail, 

Or near the shore where a silent boat 
Sails past with a palm-branch sail ; 

Down where the deck of the cyclone wreck 

Is rotting upon the reef, 
The red waves rise like a serpent's neck, 

And recoil like a guilty thief. 

And east, in the East ! Did ever wild beast, 

In the rage of a caged unrest. 
Turn east and west, and west and east. 

As I turn east and west ? 

For a full moon rides the azure tides. 

And pours down the airy way 
Floods gossamer soft as the veil that hides 

A queen on her bridal day ! 

37 



EQUATORIAL. 

Elate, elate ! When the hunter, Fate, 
Speeds his swift and deadly dart — 

Sate, with the blood of sunsets sate, 
And of beauty's beating heart — 

Perhaps in a clime that is more sublime 
My semblance again may roam, 

To prey on the shores where Father Time 
Shall have found an eternal home ! 

Colon. 1887. 



38 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 



At a bend of Rio Chagres, near the lonely 
Carib sea, 

Stands the palm-thatched hut of Sanchez, and a 
planter bold is he. 

Descended from a Spaniard who came in early- 
days, 

With the horde of treasure-seekers, that with 
endless prayer and praise 

Preyed truly on the natives they found along 

their track, 
His complexion, I must tell you, for a certainty 

is black. 

It is possibly the climate ; for the sun has horrid 

ways 
Of tanning skins of people with his horrid torrid 

rays; 

39 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

The fairest grow off-colored, and in time there 

may be doubt 
Whether blood of pure hidalgo may not come 

to peter out. 
But in the case of Sanchez — Don Carlos he is 

styled — 
When facts are squarely stated, he was his 

mother's child ; 
And she, without a question, save some that 

muddle things, 
Was the royal far-off daughter of a line of 

Congo kings. 



And now, beside the river, with fair vistas up 
and down, 

Where the hills are gay in sunshine and dark 

when storm-clouds frown. 
Their robes of verdure blending with the bloom 

of countless flowers, 

40 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

Inwrought by Mother Nature as she weaves the 

Web of Hours, 
Where the peacefulness of summer broods low 

in lovely skies, 

And life, a dream of beauty, cheats unac- 
customed eyes, 

This banana planter liveth ; nor dwelleth he 
alone ; 

F'or the mother of his children, with lineage like 
his own — 

Castilian in the background with Timbuctoo at 
the fore — 

Has borne as many children as ever mother bore. 

And yet survived. 

At present, in that grove of tropic trees, 
Whose fruit-crop is exported to New York 
across the seas, 

To be eaten there quite thoughtless of how or 
whence it came, 

41 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

Nor yet the slightest wonder how or whence it 

took its name, 
Or knowledge of the banner-broad, magnificent 

great leaves, 
Unfolded like as banners on the balm of tropic 

eves. 
To wave with lazy motion, or in the morning 

sun 

Resembling fair transparencies, goodly to gaze 
upon. 

Pale-green against the glory of the fervid east- 
ern sky — 

At present, I was saying, should the curious 
passer-by 

Desire to see Don Carlos and his endless 
progeny, 

To investigate the customs and the hospitality 

Of the native of the jungle, he need entertain no 
fear 



42 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

He will not be duly welcomed with the best of 
native cheer. 

Do not hesitate to enter ; for though the curs be 

rude, 
And rush out helter-skelter, like a hungry 

wolfish brood, 
There is seldom any danger that the stranger 

will be hurt. 
Though such a snarly welcome might be thought 

a trifle curt. 

The hut was planned for coolness ; and its archi- 
tect took pains 

To leave it open to the winds, so the roof kept 

out the rains ; 
And it has the double merit as a tropical abode, 
That while it is al fresco it is likewise a la mode. 
Full details might be tiresome ; but an outline 

let me give, 

43 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

Of the free and easy manner in which these 
people live — 

These ''dusky children of the sun," to use a 
poet's flight, 

The "dusky" meaning, if you please, the color 
of the nieht. 



As for raiment : In a climate where the sum- 
mer never fails. 

It would be an utter nuisance to assume the 
swallow-tails, 

The corsages and so forth which the fashionable 
fates 

Impose upon poor devils there in Europe and 
the States. 

And therefore Carlos Sanchez, like a sensible 
old Don, 

Feels more at ease and happier with little cloth- 
ing on ; 

44 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

While Senoraj as a model for the study of the 

nude 
Would undoubtedly seem awful in the judgment 

of the prude. 
While the children! Did you ever ! No, you 

never, I declare ! 
But why pursue a subject that is so very bare ? 

Let us rather enter in, or enter under, shall I 

say, 
Since the roof alone is all there is between us 

and the day. 



Four sturdy posts are planted, and upon them 

there is placed 
The tent-like superstructure ; then the domicile 

is graced 
With hammocks for siesta, and some skillets, 

pots and pans. 



45 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

And these are supplemented by a wealth of 
empty cans, 

Which do duty in the menage quite as bravely 
as the best 

Of Dresden or of Venice. And as for place of 

rest, 

A notched post in the centre of this novel 
tenement 

Leads the climber to an attic, where no doubt 

supreme content 
Attends the huddled sleepers, when the shadows 

of the night 
Fall around the home of Sanchez and the tropic 

stars are bright. 



But see them in the evening ere the hour for 

sleep has come, 
Disporting to the music of a kind of native 

drum ; 

46 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

The tum-tum, the fandango ! and in all the 

realms of earth, 
I can positively promise no more jollity and 

mirth. 
The neighbors all assemble, and each frisky girl 

and boy 
Is ready for the frolic ; each is eager to enjoy 
The intoxicating motion or the ravishing 

repose, 
The only jewel visible a fire-fiy or a rose ! 

Their social rules are simple, yet I do not 
hesitate 

To venture the assertion that their virtues are 
as great. 

Allowing for the latitude (which is said to in- 
terfere 

Very sadly with the ethics of the conjugal 
career), 

47 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 



As those of northern people who are liable to 
make 

A terrible commotion when propriety's at stake. 



And so, upon the river, with fair vistas up and 
down, 

Removed from all the worriment of city and of 
town. 

Surrounded by a fairyland that knows no fall- 
ing leaf, 

Where the butterflies are radiant and the birds 
surpass belief, 

Where all things thrive and prosper and are 
glorious to see 

(Save the pallid apparitions of those whom 
destiny 

Has led captive from the Northland, and the 
fevers have assailed), 

48 



THE BANANA PLANTER. 

I will leave our friend Don Carlos, with the 

hope I haven't failed 
To interest the reader of this imperfect lay, 
Whose humble servant I'll remain forever and 

a day ! 

October. 1888. 



49 



EXTREMES. 



The vultures floating in the upper air, 

On wide-expanded wings beneath the blue, 
Circle on wider circle within view, 

Higher and higher still, until the fair 

Far vision builds a splendid dream, w^ith care 
And sordidness excluded, and a new 
High noble life made possible and true : 

This wins my spirit from its old despair. 

But when the vulture-nature once again 

Prevails above the instinct that aspires, 

And downward, at the call of low desires. 

Headlong with folded plumes they plunge, the 
pain, 

And all the grief of life come back amain : 

Ah, then hope mocks, and love and faith seem 
liars. 

Colon. 

50 



THE REVERENT MOOD. 



When thunders echo through the midnight sky, 
And lightnings flash with jagged forks of fire 
From black cloud-walls of storm, as if the ire, 

Long pent by fate, descended from on high. 

While, clustered in a mute expectancy, 

The palm trees tremble on the wild sea-shore. 
And Doom seems pending in the awful roar — 

My heart leaps outward with a reverent cry ; 

For in this tropic wonder-world of night 
And elemental passion, there abide 
Deep meanings of the Power that is the guide 

And arbiter of destiny, whose might 

Swayeth the boundless universe aright, 
And yet doth paint the lily in its pride. 



51 



IN THE MORNING. 



What time the shadows of the night are fleeing 
Before the sunrise, and the darkness yields, 

A fine delight thrills all the bounds of being, 
As I stray lonely in the summer fields. 

For Nature comes to me in smiling token 
Of loving kindness to again declare 

The olden promise she has never broken. 
That she has made of me a favored heir. 

" I give to thee, in absolute fee-simple. 
To have," she says, " and to forever hold. 

All these my riches ; from where valleys dimple 
The lovely prospect, to where hills are bold 

52 



IN THE MORNING. 

Against the ether ! " And I look and listen, 
As thus she speaks the message of the morn, 

What time my tear-drops with the dew-drops 
glisten, 
Standing enraptured near the growing corn ! 

All mine ! fair thanks to thee, most royal mother ! 

Thy largess gives the ills of life surcease. 
To thee alone I owe, and to none other. 

This golden silence, this ideal peace ! 

Wiesbaden, Julj% 1888. 



53 



IN THE EVENING. 



As when a dawn of doubtful promise ends 
In cold and cloudy certainty of storm, 
Thus oft the hopes of life's beginning form 

A sun-gleam only, that full early blends 

With tempest ; and before fair weather sends 
White truce, the surges of time's high-tide roar 
With anger round the noonday ; and the shore 

Of eveningtime with wreck and wrath portends. 

And yet, so changeful are the hope and fear 
Which rule the destinies of men and days, 
That when the sunset opens wide the fold 

Of peace and slumber, there will oft appear, 

Above the portals of night's gathering haze, 
Purple and rose and wealth of dreamland gold. 

Wiesbaden. July, 1888. 

54 



A r PANAMA. 



There is a palm beside my open door, 

Wliose leaves the Southern Cross shines nightly 
through. 

Within its dusky shadow evermore, 
On all fair eves, when lightly falls the dew, 
The South Sea keeps a love-tryst to renew 
Its amour with the low-reclining land, 
Lighting its soft approaches to my view 
With phosphorescent gleams on every hand. 
Like drowning stars, lost from heaven's radiant 
band. 

Within this syren-soothing calm I come. 
Willing of mind to sink into repose. 
Lulled by the drowsy summer-insect hum 
(My cares left yonder at the lost day's close), 
I share existence with the night-blown rose, 

55 



AT PANAMA. 



Whose soul of fragrance trembles in the air. 
Escaped from self and from all lesser foes, 
Star-crowned, sea-comforted, I once more dare 
To kiss the lips of love and twine her glorious hair. 



The Critic, 1881. 



56 



DOUBT. 



Vex me ho more ; no longer fill mv heart 

With strange unrest so near akin to pain. 
Fill up the doubting void, and bid depart 
The nameless shadow which no mortal art 
Can banish never to return again. 

Break thy sad spell ; release the captive, Hope, 

So sadly pining for the morning light. 
Undo the bonds of Charity and ope 
Faith's slumbering vision to the wider scope 
Of an immortal day beyond the night. 

O, cease thy power ; let human love rejoice 

That the sweet kisses of its early bloom 
Shall be perennial ; that smile and voice, 
That form and features of the heart's fond choice, 
Shall live again beyond the cruel tomb. 

57 



DOUBT. 

I will not yield ! The foaming tide may rave, 
And threaten direful wreck of all my love ; 
The eager tempest still shall find me brave, 
With full reliance on the God who gave, 
That He will land us on his shores above. 

Harper's Magazine^ 1873. 



58 



MARIE. 

Let me breathe in a whisper soft and low, 

To be heard alone by thee, 
One word of the love, of the passionate glow. 

Of my heart for my own Marie. 

Since the hour we met, when the starlit night 
Seemed a mantle of jewels to be, 

No thought of joy, no dream of delight. 
Has been mine save of thee, Marie. 

Far, far from thy side the rude fates of life 
May drift me, with stern decree. 

But midst all the storm and toil of its strife, 
I shall never cease loving Marie. 

59 



MV BOYHOOD HOME. 



A REMINISCENCE. 
I. 

The years go sweeping onward in their course, 

Summers and winters tell their constant 
round, 

Brave youth and hardy manhood lose their 
force, 
Life in the fetters of old age lies bound. 
The story soon is told of each and all 

Who've lived, and loved, and suffered 'neath 
heaven's dome ! 
Then would I briefly from the past recall 

Dear father, mother, friends and early home. 

60 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Scant welcome was there, when afar he came 
Into the wild — that sturdy, earnest man — 

His worldly fortune nothing but good name 
And that brave-hearted courage which outran 

All timid fears and bade him undertake. 
There, in the endless forest's leafy gloom. 

His way in life to resolutely make, 

Though toil and peril should pronounce his 
doom. 

Scant welcome ! For as yet the Indian trod 

Those virgin wilds. The wolf, the bear, and 
deer 

Scented his footsteps on the mossy sod, 
Ere yet his rifle they had learned to fear. 

Wife of his bosom and the younglings small 
Nestled all closely in the silence there, 

Nor vainly faltered their low trembling call 
For Heaven's protection and the angels' care. 

6i 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Unaided and alone wild nature to undo, 

From earliest dawn till darkness filled the air, 
His manly blows fell ceaselessly and true. 

Till the prone forest lighted the red glare 
Of the wild night-fires, whose consuming flame 

Swept the felled monarchs airward one by 
one, 
Until the blossoming of few summers came 

Ere fruitful acres smiled out in the sun. 

Ever unwearied by rough daily toil, 

This hero of the wildwood still could find, 

By evening's fire-glow or the sacred oil 

Of midnight lamps some solace for the mind. 

With wondrous energies of hand and brain 

He wrought unceasingly ; and amid all. 

Through storm and sunshine, pleasure sweet or 
pain, 

Faith in God's mercy e'er sustained his soul ! 

62 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Oh ! that my loving memory of him 

Might cast the fetters from this unskilled 
hand 
And teach my heart more faithfully to limn 

The noble portraiture. Could I command 
Fair Inspiration's lyre, then would I sing 

The meed of honor due, with grateful pride 
And depths of feeling, like the floods of spring 

Sweeping the vales with inundation wide. 

Since lesser gifts are mine, and they untried, 

A simple record let me then essay, 
With kind affection for my gentle guide 

While in the fields of memory I stray. 
And let me pass those toilsome early years — 

The brave endeavors that their pages fill — 
To linger in the sunlight that endears 

For aye and aye the old Home on the Hill ! 

63 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Time softens all it touches here below, 

And sheds a mild effulgence o'er the past, 
Bridging the gulfs of weariness and woe 

With bow as bright as that which is o'ercast 
The fabled distances 'twixt earth and heaven, 

On which, 'tis sung, the radiant angels tread 
In viewless glory, when a soul is given 

Into their keeping, while we mourn the dead. 

The little daily joys and cares we knew, 

The scenes and faces of those yesterdays, 
Come to our minds all freshly in review. 

From out the misty, intervening haze 
Of time and distance, when perchance we turn 

Thought's mirror backward. Then may we 
behold, 
Fair as the clouds that in the sunset burn 

On summer evenings, the dear forms of old. 

64 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

'Tis said that hearts resemble ocean shells, 

Cast by the moaning billows on the shore ; 
If one be taken, it forever tells 

The story of the white foam's ceaseless roar — 
As if some fairy of the dark-hued deep, 

Imprisoned there, pined ever to be free, 
To wing her flight back where her kindred keep 

Their mystic vigils deep down in the sea. 

If this be true of others, then my own 
Forms no exception to the common lot. 

'Tis not the echo of a ceaseless moan 

For fair days squandered, ne'er to be forgot. 

But day or night, waking or wrapt in dreams. 
The home of childhood constantly appears 

Before my vision, and forever teems 

With light and shadow, sunny smiles and 
tears. 

65 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

First in procession in fair memory's train, 

The dearest mother a fond child e'er knew, 
Or ever gently soothed a young heart's pain, 

Appears before my retrospective view. 
Who of that household, widely scattered now. 

Can think of her devoted love and care 
Nor wonder that the sorely bended bough 

Ne'er broke beneath the weight of fruit it bare ? 

The gentle murmur of the tropic sea. 

When winds are hushed to rest beneath the 
moon. 

Can never seem so sadly sweet to me 

As the far echoes of dear "Bonnie Doon," 

As mother sang it, at the spinning wheel, 
So deftly by her busy fingers plied, 

While she anon would loving glances steal 
Towards the infant cradled by her side. 

66 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Time never can efface till end of days 

The memory of her never-ending cares 
And fond solicitude, lest in the ways 

Of untried life there w4''/// be hidden snares, 
To trap the unwary feet of those whom she, 

Liive gentlest shepherdess beneath the sun. 
Had watched and guarded from calamity 

Each hour and moment since their lives begun. 

And what a crowded home it was indeed 

When all were gathered 'neath the parent roof. 
Before the elder children took the lead 

And went forth battling in their own behoof ! 
And what a busy hive, where every one 

Was taught the value of each passing hour, 
Nor idle hands left hardest task undone 

Which fell within the limits of their power ! 

67 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Each season brought its constant round of toil, 

Commencing with the earliest days of spring, 
Ere the snows melted from the frozen soil 

Or trees began to bud or birds to sing. 
The leafless forest was invaded then, 

With axe and spile the sugar-maple sought, 
And to the camp within its woody glen 

The sap, when gathered, speedily was brought. 

The fires beneath the cauldrons then were made, 

To burn all day, with fervent, even heat. 
And often were our homeward steps delayed 

Till nightfall found day's labors incomplete. 
Oh ! then what happiness to gather round 

The ruddy fire-glow, in the chill night air. 
While the grim darkness echoed back the sound 

Of merry songs, and laughter free from care. 

68 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

What joy the fragrant syrup to bail out, 

All steaming hot, and then to bear it home, 
In buckets fixed with yoke and hoop so stout 

No danger of its spilling e'er could come. 
What pleasant welcome kindly faces wore 

For the belated ; and with what good cheer, 
Hearty though homely, from our ample store. 

The supper table waited for us there ! 

Plain, rustic people were we, true enough ! 

Unlearned of fashion and all wealth can give. 
Treading no fllowery pathway, but the rough 

And rocky road wherein the poor must strive. 
But is there one of us who would forget 

Those long-lost happy sugar-making days ? 
Or who indeed can look without regret 

Back to the joys and griefs of rural ways ? 

69 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Then April came, with sun and rain which took 

The snow away and brought the first spring 
fliowers ; 

The wheat and grass began to bear the look 
Of coming summer, while the hidden powers 

Within the hearts of all the leafless trees. 
From winter's bondage once again set free. 

Began to swell the buds ; then by degrees 

The whole world grew most wondrous fair to 
see, 

All May ; until one morn bright June came forth, 

Arrayed in beauteous robes of green and gold ! 
The south winds blew so softly on the north 

From the far Tropics, that the birds made bold 
To come in flocks to sing and build their nests 

Within the garden trees and 'neath the eaves ; 
The lilacs blossomed and the locust crests 

Were green as sea-waves with their wealth of 

leaves. 

70 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Queen of the Northern year, O dearest June ! 

How bright thy memories flow o'er my soul ! 
How thy warm sunlight, like a Southern noon, 

Floods all my being with its bright control, 
Until I dream Arcadia must have lain 

On thy fair borders ; and the Isle of Springs, 

In view from " visioning heights" along thy 
main, 

Wafted across the wave on viewless wings 

Odor of Lotus so divinely sweet. 

That, breathing it, the spirit fain must yield 
To the intoxicating wish to eat 

And court forgetfulness ! Yet sadly sealed 
Has been thy book for me this many a day ; 

Though the slightest recollection of thy face — 
The briars growdng in the woodland way. 

The cherries blushing at thy tender grace, 

71 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

The chestnuts planted by the garden wall 

By hand now planting fairer fields than these, 

The apple blossoms whose sweet eyes recall 
The humble cottage mid the forest trees, 

Upon the spot where now they yield their fruit, 

Beside the graves of those who've gone to 
sleep 
With the cold marble pointing white and mute 
Above their slumbers to the upper deep — 

These, and a thousand tenderest replies 

Come to my questioning heart across the waste 

Of time and distance, June ! Appealing eyes 
Steal on my thoughts ; and if I could but haste 

To swifter measure, this, my poor lame verse, 
Across the years I'd beckon them to come. 

And for one happy hour those scenes rehearse 

Which hold my heart of hearts ; and then be 
dumb. 

72 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

n. 
A swallow does not make the summer ; so 

June .with her glory does not make the year. 
She may be queen, and is ; but cannot go 

Beyond her all too briefly glorious sphere. 
Her warmth and beauty end not with her sway, 

But, when her sceptre passes to her kin, 
Intensified in passion day by day, 

They stimulate all nature, and begin. 

Ere July well has caught the reins of power, 
To bend the grasses by the meadow brook 

Beneath the lowering of the thunder shower. 
And burn the tassels of the corn to look 

Chestnut. And as the bright days pass, 

The sheep, all sheared, are panting 'neath the 
shade. 
And the tired oxen, stretched upon the grass. 
Seem wondering why such heat was ever made. 

73 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

'Twas wonderful to watch, as the swift days 

Fell into shining rows of summer weeks, 
While August suns burned up the dusty ways 

And dried the springs which fed the crystal 
creeks. 
By what strange alchemy the waving wheat 

Was turned to golden billows in the breeze ! 
The reapers looking like a tiny fleet 

Rocking its sunny way through yellow seas ! 

The harvest apples and the berries red, 

How precious sweet they seemed in those old 
days ! 
And the cool root-beer dearest mother made 

For the tired harvesters ! Oh ! should delays 
Of purgatorial nature keep us back 

From quick reception in the world on high. 
Whene'er our path leads up the misty track 

Towards the home we hope for by and by — 

74 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Could we but be supplied in such dire plight, 

With plenteous draughts from such another 
store, 
I doubt the torments that could cause us quite 

To leave, without regret, that doubtful shore ! 
You smile ? You may ; and so indeed would I, 

If once again beneath the harvest tree. 
The yellow sunlight burning up the sky, 

One cooling goblet were vouchsafed to me ! 

It is perhaps the dearest gift to own 

Of any other, that, when youth has fled, 

All the familiar scenes and faces gone 

Among the distant or laid with the dead, 

One may forget the little ills which flecked 
Life's happy current, nor remember aught 

To mar the beauty of the retrospect, 

Though tenderest tears flow quickly when a 
thought 

75 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Or memory comes of some lost love or hope, 
Long dead and buried with the withered 
leaves 

Of life's fair roses ; never to look up 

Above its grave ! Alas ! this truly grieves ! 

And yet, and yet, it is a grief so dear. 
So sacred and so tender, that the heart, 

Sorrowing, rejoices ; and its fear 

Through its great love is bidden to depart. 

Thus it has come to pass, in this at least. 

That I forget the rough and painful toil, 
Early and late, the care and work that ceased 

Only when Sunday came, our thoughts to call 
For a brief space away from earthl-y things. 

Or, if not quite forgot, so little weighed 
That their remembrance never o'er me brings 

A sad reflection or a passing shade 

76 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Of sorrow or regret, that in their place 

Luxurious ease had not held quiet sway. 
With a glad heart I look them in the face 

And say — " Oh ! yes ; but that was far away ! " 
So very far that if I did not know 

Realities, or had not ever known, 
I might imagine it a fairy plow 

I held that day, when, catching on a stone, 

It threw me underneath the horses' feet 

In deadly peril ! Or I might go back 
Among the hay, and say the lad I greet. 

So tired and sick with mowing as to lack 
The power to raise his head to make reply, 

Being so much alike, perhaps was me. 
What then ? The blue and tranquil summer sky 

That day gave promise of Eternity ! 

77 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

And the next evening ! Can I, can I pass 
Along the line of memory's shining nets, 

Sometimes let down into those deeps, alas ! 
So growing deeper with each sun that sets. 

Nor stop one little moment in that eve, 

Darkened by storm and wild with thunder- 
clouds ? 

Did the red flashes of the lightning leave 

No memory of it, which my heart enshrouds ? 

The cows were hastened homeward from the 
wood 

Before its coming ; and the milking-pails 
Were being filled as fast as e'er we could 

Press the full udders. But no haste avails ! 
The wind tossed up the locust branches high 

For one brief moment ; then the furious rain 
Came swooping downwards from the angry sky. 

So sudden that no shelter could we gain. 

78 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

To "stand and take it " was not very much, 

Seeing the cows were there for company. 
(Better it may be to have been in such 

Than certain other in this world we see.) 
A sudden wish to brave it was my own, 

A quick desire to stand there and behold 
The lightning rend the clouds, and hear them 
groan 

And roar and peal their thunders on the world ! 

With head uncovered and with face upturned — 

The storm ablaze and raging for an hour. 
As though Inferno in the heavens burned 

And Neptune battled to subdue its power — 
The boy, untroubled by a sense of fear, 

His soul imbued with reverent love and awe. 
Remained, lone witness, until night drew near 

To break the spell and bid the clouds with- 
draw, 

79 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Description fails the glory to portray, 

Just as the fury of the tempest ceased. 
The sinking splendors of the king of day, 

Burned in the evening heavens from west to 
east ; 
And when the gorgeous after-sunset glow 

Inflamed the rising mists with hues divine, 
When rose and gold and purple blent to show 

The power of God — the littleness of mine — 

My all untutored mind and heart caught up. 

In their scant treasury of precious things. 
At least a faint portrayal. And my hope, 

0'erfl3dng, ma}^ be, with her slender wings 
The bounds of prudence, trustfully relies. 

When morning dawns for us and life above 
Begins by ending here, the sinless skies 

Will beam upon us with such light of love ! 

80 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 
HI. 

The fairest sight of all the world to see 

Is the ripe fruit developed from its germ, 
Rich with the bloom of full maturity ; 

As when love's early bliss has had its term, 
And youthful longings have been lulled to sleep, 

Within the rounded beauty with which time 
Invests the beautiful. Power more deep 

And more resistless than of sweetest prime 

Dwells in perfected passion ; power to sip 

Life's nectar from the overflowing brim, 
Or to withhold anon the thirsting lip, 

Lest from excess the light of love grow dim. 
Type and dear emblem of those golden days, 

The Northern Autumn, wearing kingly crown 
Of plenty, blent with gracious beauty, lays 

On the fair earth its regal treasures down. 



ii 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

My eyes have seen an island of the sea, 

Where wild Atlantic meets the Carib wave, 
Which in its beauty seems fit simile 

For nature's triumph when at last she gave 
September and October to the year. 

It rises from its emerald sea-girt shore. 
With a wide, lovely sweep into the clear 

Eternal skies, where fancy loves to soar, 

As though a sentient soul within had said, 

" I now will draw my lines so wondrous fair. 
From my warm feet e'en to my mountain head. 

Towering so grandly through the dreamy air, 
Men shall be fain to call me beautiful ; 

And as they sail away shall turn to gaze 
Upon my form, which shall their souls enthrall 

With its remembrance to their latest days," 

82 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Who that has parted from a Northern home, 

Its hills and vales, its streams and forest trees, 
The seas of fortune far away to roam, 

Does not recall, while sailing on the breeze 
That bears him further still forevermore 

From all those scenes dear to his inmost soul, 
September, sweeping up from Summer's shore 

To proud October, monarch of them all ! 

IV. 

If God the power had given unto me. 

To clothe with language what my heart would 
sing, 

I do not think it would my longing be 

Sublime conceptions from great heights to 
bring. 

But to portray with all the love I feel 

Dear homely pictures of the things I've seen. 

Or dreamed of, so that I might break the seal 
Of those sweet founts that keep the memory 
green. 83 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Age follows youth, and fatefully grim death, 

Like a dire vampire, drinks the blood of life ; 

And winds will seaward blow, with wafting 
breath, 

Tho' on the shore hands wave and hearts are rife 
With vision-blinding sorrow ; darkness comes 

All as securely as the dawn of day ; 
But while this life endures, in earthly homes 

Shall brightly beam affection's gentle ray. 

Yea, beam and beam ; and so illume the track — 

Downward or upw^ard, whichsoe'er it be — 

From youth to age, that, looking fondly back. 

As eyes from mountain heights search all the 
sea. 

Or from the sea peer tow'rd the purple glooms, 
The simplest objects shall forever glow 

Like crimson cloudlets or like beauty's blooms. 
As warm as summer and as pure as snow. 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

'Tis love, perhaps, and distance purify, 

And time. At least they strip the dross away 
From those, our idols, of the days gone by. 

And to the grave consign whate'er was clay. 
So, it is scarcely dear old Pacer now, 

With his white face and feet and kindly eyes, 
Patient and good in carriage or at plow, 

That half rejoices me and half brings sighs ; 

Nor Bose, the watchful guardian of the night. 

All gray with age, and faithful as the sun 
In whose warm rays and life-restoring light 

He basked and dreamed of canine glory won 
In youth ; nor yet my little turkey chicks, 

My first and last, whose loss I sorely grieved, 
Nine beauties, killed by one of those sad tricks 

Men should not tell to boys to be believed ; 

85 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Nor even yet my Charley-colt so fine, 

Dun-colored, zebra-legged, with stripe of 
brown 
From mane to tail — how proud to call him mine ! 

Not all of these nor all I could write down, 
Objects themselves, do hold my heart in thrall, 

But their remembrance is so dearly prized, 
That until faded are life's treasures all. 

They shall remain for aye idealized. 

A thronging throng ! Like spirits of the air. 

They come and hover round me in the night, 
Waking or sleeping, and corroding care 

Is banished from my " Gardens of Delight," 
Wherein I sit, to reckon o'er and o'er 

That rosary of scenes and seasons dear. 
Beginning with the violet-sweet shore 

Of Spring, and only ending with the year. 

86 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Far more enchanting than all else before, 
Awaking longings after something higher, 

More perfect and diviner, kept in store 
In climes immortal, to which souls aspire, 

Appear those hazy Indian-summer days, 

When the Autumnal frosts had tinged the 
leaves 

With glorious hues, setting the world ablaze. 

And Ceres bound her last and fairest sheaves. 

V, 

My full heart lingers and would gladly dwell 

Loving and long mid those endearing scenes, 
Would fain to kindred hearts the story tell, 

How kindly nature, with o'erflowing means. 
Filled all the land with plenty, and arrayed 

The earth in richest robes of loveliness. 
Alas ! by yea nor nay can be delayed 

The chariot wheels of Time. Onward they 
press, 87 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Forever, crushing out the wine and blood 

Of life alike. Ne'er sweetest songs of joy, 
Nor saddest sighs of sorrow, yet withstood 

One briefest moment ; nor can man employ, 
Nor art, nor power, so Godlike as to stay. 

By so much as a breath, their ceaseless roll ; 
But onward, ever onward, day by day. 

They near the borderland 'tween sense and 
soul, 

Twixt seen and unseen, where dwell bandit 
loves, 

And hopes and brave imaginings which go 
Raiding beyond the line, e'en to those groves 

Of amaranthine verdure, where we know 
The loved and lost abide ; returning oft. 

Sprinkled with dews from the celestial skies 
And odor-laden with the fragrance soft 

Of shores whereon the Mounts of Bliss arise. 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Wherefore, my relics of that former day, 

How dear soever they may be to me, 
Must be laid by, although to them I may 

Cling as the drowning unto wrecks at sea. 
And w^hen November merges her sad sigh, 

Over the fallen leaf, in Winter's moan. 
And when her tears, descending from the sky. 

Are chilled and frozen, cold as hearts of stone, 



Then must I lingeringly my gaze withdraw. 

And wave across the gulfs a fond adieu ! 
Nor am I very sad ; for by that law 

Of love, which ever keeps the true love true. 
Through correspondence shall my own heart be 

With quiet joy and happiness elate, 
Through and o'er all that Fate may bring to me, 

Until I reach the spirit's high estate. 

89 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Good-bye ! Across the raging desert sea, 

From this fair, tropic, ever-blooming land, 
Whereto kind Fortune's breezes wafted me, 

I send such greeting as I could command. 
Oh ! could the language I but here translate. 

In which surrounding nature finds a voice ! 
Oh ! if the rushing of bright wings would wait 

To teach the art to me, it would rejoice 



My inmost being ! Then, dear Home of youth. 

And all the Loves that I did know therein. 
Friends still on earth, and even ye the truth 

Who know of life beyond this vale of sin. 
The soul of Summer, pulsing through my own. 

Should beat such bars of tuneful melody 
As ye might reckon sweet, and undertone 

All sweetly back in echo unto me. 

90 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

Oh ! then these fairy-haunted woods and streams, 

These gorgeous birds and ever-blooming 
flowers, 
This never-ending June, this land of dreams, 

Where in delicious languor die the hours, 
Should yield the secrets of their hearts to mine, 

Enrapt and climbing purple heights of bliss. 
Unknown on earth, save when the gods combine, 

And gleam the glories of their worlds on this. 

The Palms should whisper what sweet messages 

They're waving upward, towards the bending 

s^y? [breeze. 

Stirred by the light, warm breathings of the 

The Cactuses should tell the secret why 
Their sweetest sister* bloometh in the night. 

Unfolding her white heart with trembling haste. 
And, Holy Orchid, f ye should glad my sight. 

Where ye do hide, within the wildering waste, 

* Night-blooming Cereus. 

+ Espiritu-Santo or Holy Ghost flower. 

91 



MY BOYHOOD HOME. 

With vision of thy transformation strange, 

From heart of flower to wondrous form of dove ! 
All things soever, in the mystic range 

Of tropic nature, from the skies above 
Unto the glistening archipelagoes 

Of emerald islands, sunning in the wave. 
Would I waft northward, soft as wind that blows 

Billows of violets around a grave. 

And you, to pleasure whom these lines I've 
penned. 

To whom I speed them o'er the deep so far, 
My loving wife, my counsellor, my friend, 

My inspiration and my light, my star ! 
If, when you read them o'er, your heart replies 

In echo, and a dear responsive chord 
Of loving thought beams from your loving eyes, 

When meeting mine, I shall have my reward. 

W7'itte7i at Colon, Isthmus of Panaj>ia. 

92 



AN ORATION: 

DELIVERED AT THE UNITED STATES CONSULATE, 
ASPINWALL, JULY 4TH, 1866. 



ORA TION. 



'' I ^HE Century Plant is said to awaken with a 
throb of beauty and yield up its long hidden 
heart in blossom only once in a hundred years. 
During the interval, it dreams in rapt silence and 
obscurity of the coming anniversary, when it may 
unfold its floral beauties to the dear light of heaven 
and the wondering gaze of man. More fortunate 
than this natural wonder, the divine implantation 
of love of freedom, so universally and deeply 
rooted in man's nature, always growing to greater 
beauty and perfection, has, with us at least, its 
yearly anniversary, and stirs the great American 
heart with one universal thrill and joyous outburst 
on each recurrence of this, " The Day we cele- 
brate." 

95 



ORATION. 

It is a happy thought for us, that we are not 
alone in our glad and devoted observance of the day. 
Not only on the dear home shores, but in every 
clime, our widely scattered countrymen, fired 
with the same spirit of loyalty and love that is 
animating us, are this hour engaged in the same 
happy devotion to the memory of the birth and 
traditions of our common country. 

We are accustomed to call this a glorious day, and 
ours a glorious land. We are apt to boast our em- 
blematic eagle, mid its halo of stars, and our waving 
red, white, and blue, presided over by the protecting 
genius of our patron goddess, the proudest insignia 
of any nation. Others sometimes call us enthusi- 
astic, romantic, bombastic, if you will, and smile 
with no gentle cynicism at our claims to greatness. 
Elder nations, now in the sere and yellow of their 
days, are slow to admit the vigorous, sturdy man- 
hood of our early prime. But where, oh ! where, 
on God's green earth shall the gaze of the world be 
turned for the equal of our example? Comparisons 

96 



ORATION. 

are always odious, it is said, therefore not graceful 

on an occasion of festivity : 

" Let them buried lie." 

Let other nations and peoples boast their fill, while 

we will be content with ourselves ; and reverently 

let us ask, 

" In the light of God's great glory, 

Who are we ? What are we?" 
Have we aught of which to be proud? Does the 
history of our past encourage us ? Let us consult it. 
" The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rockbound coast," 
one wintry day scarce two hundred and fifty years 
ago. America was then a wild from sea to moun- 
tain range, and thence to the farthest unknown 
ocean. The Indian and wild beast held the wilder- 
ness undiisputed. A wide continent still slumbered 
in the arms of its natal savageism. Nature, the 
sovereign, held sway in her sumptuous, queenly 
grandeur o'er the wild expanse, the subjects 
of her laws numbering only savage men and 
beasts, wild mountain ranges, lakes of magnificent 

97 



ORATION. 

beauty, and deep, endless forests, warmed by the 
genial sunlight into majestic life, watered by a 
thousand rushing rivers and swayed by the wild 
winds of heaven. 

There was no Hudson, or Ohio, or James, or 
Connecticut, or Tennessee, or Columbia, or Mis- 
souri, or mighty Mississippi, then ; no Mount 
Washington, or Ascutney, or Peaks of Otter, or 
bold Point Lookout, or Alleghany, or grand Rocky 
Mountain chains ; no Superior, or Ontario, or 
lovely George, or Great Salt Desert lakes ; no 
multitude of cities, busy centres all of wealth and 
commerce — but instead, a nameless, trackless, 
almost boundless wild, awaiting in blindness and 
darkness the coming Messiah of civilization. 

Good old Rip Van Winkle, upon awaking from 
his slumber of many years, sought for the scenes 
familiar to his closing vision. A new world sur- 
rounded him, and the sleeper searched in vain for 
traces of the past. They were gone ! and he was 
left wondering and lamenting — a fossil of a former 

98 



ORATION. 

creation. Imagine for an instant that we outsleep 
the sleepy Dutchman, and going back to the time 
when that brave hearted 

" Band of exiles moored their bark 
On the wild New England shore," 

we consign to oblivious dreams the two and a half 
intervening centuries, and open our eyes on this 
auspicious day. 

What scene of enchantment is this ! would be our 
exclamation. What more than Arabian Nights 
entertainment blinds and dazzles our returning 
sight? By what magic or art of necromancy are 
we deluded? What grand vision of a scarce 
dreamed of, yet already realized, futurity bursts 
with millennial splendor upon our view ? Are we 
still in the fairy fable-land of dreams ? Impossible ! 
Where, then, are the pitiless wilderness and more 
pitiless savage ? Where the great unknown of the 
mighty continent, stretching out beyond the frown- 
ing portals of the hither shore — beyond even 
imagination's most daring flight ? Where the wild 

99 



ORATION. 

New World of two hundred and fifty years ago? 
Gone ! Every trace faded and lost, and gone. 
The frowning barriers of savageism have been 
swept away by the resistless march of a new, and 
brave, and free civilization. American civilization ! 
Ours ! Its onward course has been like that of the 
sweeping, all-compelling storm-wind, save that it 
has scattered naught but blessings. The far roar 
of its coming has been like that of desolating 
waters, save that it has made the generous earth 
to "smile and blossom as the rose." Like the 

deep echo of 

" A great world in prayer. 
Like God's own thunders in the air," 

furious, and unyielding, and triumphant as a 
conquering host, pressing down with sound of 
trumpets and waving of banners upon the van- 
quished, save that the dear ties, Hope, Justice 
and Liberty, have led the vanguard, dispensing 
joy, equality, and the greatest of God's blessings. 
Since its rise it has been the only true Star of 

loo 



ORATION. 

Empire. The Old World has been comparatively idle. 
Those of her people who have lingered there have 
continued to feel the dread oppression of her sys- 
tems, and have been standing still rather than 
advancing in the march of human progress, while 
those who have forsaken her and fled for refuge to 
our shores, catching the swift impulse of a true and 
generous liberty, have beheld the dawn of a fuller, 
fresher, happier life. 

Words are idle. No language of mine can 
awaken the true American — who has studied his 
country's history, who is familiar with her trials 
and triumphs, who comprehends her greatness and 
possible destiny — to greater love and devotion. 
Her course has been upward like a star, climbing 
the azure deeps towards highest heaven. Mists 
have gathered, and storm clouds black with wrath 
have spent their angry fury, but behold her ever 
emerging into upper, purer air I Like the Star, her 
place is firmly fixed in Time's wide firmament, and 
her course is heavenward ! 

lOI 



ORATION. 

Our recent gigantic struggle with rebellion and 
its happy termination have taught not only our- 
selves, but the world, a lesson of the permanency 
of free institutions. Believers of high and low de- 
gree in the disruption of our free Empire, canters 
of the "dismembered Republic," and the "late 
Union," whether in high public place or in private 
life, have been rebuked and silenced by the mighty 
logic of events. The flaming thunders of loyal 
cannon and the deadly gleam of Freedom's bay- 
onets, pressing foeward, though deluging the land 
with brave hearts' blood and darkening many a 
home with the wide o'ershadovving wings of 
Death, have borne our proud flag in triumph every- 
where, restoring peace and union, blotting out 
forever our only stain, breaking down all barriers 
of caste, binding us together as one people, with 
one common hope, one aim, one destiny, and mak- 
ing our land forever, with God's greatest blessing, 
the true "Land of the free," the true "Home of 
the brave." 

I02 



ORATION. 

May we not then say that this, the natal day of 
the Great Republic, is a glorious occasion? May 
we not without vanity call ///^/ people truly great 
W'hich has achieved such triumphs? 

With an area of 3,000,000 square miles, nearly 
equal to the whole of Europe ; a population of 
35,000,000, scattered over thirty-four States ; a sea- 
coast frontier of more than 5,000 miles, indented 
with magnificent bays and harbors, sufficient for the 
shipping of the world ; with lakes and rivers of 
great beauty and extent, all bearing upon their 
bosoms the teeming argosies of commerce ; with 
mountain ranges marvelously grand in scenery and 
rich in mineral wealth ; with hills and valleys and 
wide-spreading prairies yielding their agricultural 
bounties, towns and cities of rare beauty, crowded 
centres of enterprise, refinement and learning ; 
with a people devoted to the pursuits of industry 
and peace, and a government founded and happily 
perpetuated upon the eternal principles of human 
equality, its chief corner stone the sublime assertion 

103 



ORATION. 

of life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness 
to all its subjects ; its past unrivalled, its present 
power resistless, and its future glorious ; who shall 
say to the American of to-day he may not be loyally 
proud or yield to a generous enthusiasm when his 
country is his theme ? 

Some artist of divine endowment shall yet be 
born, whose soul shall conceive and whose ready 
hand shall transfix upon the awaiting canvas a 
glorious allegory of our history. In the foreground 
there shall be bitter winter darkness, on a wild, 
unknown shore, with crouching savages and the 
dim outlines of wild beasts shadowed darkly forth 
among the rocks and beneath the frowning forests. 

The conception shall be wild and forbidding, and 
the scene shall challenge the advance of the best 
bravery. Then he shall paint the Dawn, with its 
mists rising above and beyond, revealing a glimpse 
of a new, untried creation, with the Star of Empire 
for its morning star and wide reaches of coming 
light upon the horizon. Then, swift advancing 

104 



ORATION. 

Morning, with its grand revelation of a conti- 
nent still in the arms of nature, with mountains, 
rivers and lakes scattered in wild beauty, smiling 
in, the genial light, and awaiting, as a bride, the 
coming genius of civilized intelligence. Then Day, 
with all its glories and infinite possibilities, stretch- 
ing away and away, its widest boundaries filled 
with golden evidences of art, learning, enterprise 
and refinement ; Prosperity and Joy shedding 
their gentle influence upon the scene, Hope smiling 
welcome, Plenty ever ready to shower her bless- 
ings, Power, Triumph, and Fame attendant, while 
Liberty, radiant and pointing heavenward, shall be 
enthroned upon the central eminence, her shield 
and own loved eagle beside her, surrounded by her 
circling stars and haloed by the most radiant tri- 
color of heaven's transcendent bow. 

Love of country is among the first natural 
instincts. As life advances it becomes the first love 
of every true heart. The mind fondly reverts to 
the scenes of home and to the dear ties of the past 

105 



ORATION. 

in every stage of life, in every clime, until death 
claims its victim. The poor slave, rudely torn from 
his home and transported across seas, pines for the 
waving palm, the soft airs of his native summer, 
and even in the triumph of his dreams, lives again 
in the loved light of lost days. Men everywhere 
set up in their hearts an altar sacred to the spot of 
their birth, endowing it with whatever affectionate 
remembrance is in their natures. Living, they 
turn ever homeward, and dying, 

" Oft they pray, 

The only wish for which their hearts have room," 
to be permitted to repose in familiar earth. But 
whenever or wherever the fiat shall come that life 
is ended, whether amid friends and scenes familiar, 
or on far, lone foreign shores, I know that I but 
echo the heartfelt aspiration of all my countrymen 
when I pray — 

Grant me, Great Father, when this earthly sight 
Is blinding to the things I knew, 

When life is jaelding, and the blessed light 
Of Heaven's in view, 

io6 



ORATION. 

Mv Country shall stand foremost in the band 
Of freedom's gallant true and tried, 

And that my dying eyes behold our land, 
By Thy power, glorified ! 



Press of 
F. V. STRAUSS, 120 Walker St., N. Y. 



C 32 89 ^^^m 



